Fic: Special Hell
Title: Special Hell
Author: vespalicious
Characters/Pairings: Sylar, Adam Monroe
Rating: PG
Warnings: I attempted to not be too cracky with it, but I don't know if I quite succeeded at that or having this make any sort of sense or just..not failing in general XD.
Summary: The Company decided their top level security cells just weren't doing the trick.
Author's Notes: Idea courtesy of metatarsus, and also requested by vanitashaze in the Adam request thread at saltandsaffron and ALSO inspired by Good Omens.




The first hour of 'stalking about in a foul mood' was, to put it lightly, altogether unproductive. This was far different from that one time he had been locked away. He had a cot, an obnoxious yet altogether unfulfilling lighting system which lead to much squinting while his eyes had adjusted, the white pajamas (standard issue), and a big glass window which made it all the more easier to taunt any and all visitors he might receive. The one downfall, and Sylar would have dutifully noted this if he was the sort of individual inclined to noting dutifully any and all aesthetic issues, that the interior decorators left much to be desired.

But at least he got a random guy named Hank to kill. That was the Company's version of the prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box.

But this. This was another story.

A story that seemed to have been yanked straight from a certain book that his mother had been apt to promote his entire life, one that inspires ruler-wielding nuns everywhere, and was now causing Sylar to thinking longingly of the first time he was under Company custody and yearn for those white pajamas.

It was far beyond his comprehension who would get off on putting him in a white robe instead. A white robe with little wings sewn on the back of it, complete with elaborate embroidery galore. And there seemed to be a halo set to permanently hover above his head.

And compulsions this strong in the direction of harp-playing really couldn't be anything less than pathological.

To add insult to injury, it appeared as if the Company was also insistent on placing various forms of sweater vests around for Sylar with little notes instructing him to wear them should he become cold. The i's, he also noted with disgust, were dotted with little hearts. And the sweater vests? They were all white, some going so far as to display prints of little cherubs with harps.

Sylar made mental notes that as soon as he got out of here, he was going to raid every music store he came across and telekinetically destroy each and every single harp he came across.

Just when he thought things couldn't progress to levels of 'horrifying' beyond what it already was, Sylar became painfully aware of the fact that he wasn't even alone here. It was one thing to be stuck in this angel get-up, and a completely whole other thing to be stuck in it with living witnesses.

The stranger barely had a chance to get the 'Hello' out before he found himself pinned against a tree by a very angry man with equally pleasant wings. Only, there was much less of actually being 'pinned' against the tree, and much more backing up to get a better look, coincidentally doing so against a tree and subsequently getting the hopes up of someone who had one hand extended under the assumption that this was a result of telekinesis, instead of the sheer force of amusement at someone else's expense.

The nonchalant smirk gave Sylar all the more reason to extend his index finger and draw an invisible line across the stranger's forehead and take out his brain because if he was stuck in this Company hellhole - heavenhole, as it was known in some circles - then he had to have some sort of power, and if Sylar could get a brain out of this ordeal then so be it.

Backspace. Rewind.

Sylar shook his finger as if trying to start up a particularly stubborn ink pen that was left without a cap a bit too long but it did have ink and maybe if he ran it across the paper a few times or shook it, it had to start working for him again because of all the times he could be stuck without a pen -

Nothing had changed.

Adam yawned and waved Sylar's hand away. "Do you mind? It's rude to point."

Sylar glared, eyebrows doing most of the talking. "Who are you?"

"I'm Adam," Adam replied simply, knowing that wasn't the exact question he had in mind.

"What- "

"Are we doing here," Adam finished for him, stepping away from the tree, which he reasoned would be far more susceptible to the attempts at nonverbal intimidation. The man clearly needed some sort of an ego boost.

Wings.

"This is all an illusion. This is the Garden of Eden. Almost. But not really."

"Aren't you specific? Illusion?! But I killed - "

"Doesn't matter. They keep spares lying about. And I Suppose this is the Company's new rehabilitation regime. You can blame Bob for this one. He's a born-again Christian. Has a bit of a Bishop complex, if I say so myself."

"......."

"And you're Gabriel."

"MY NAME IS SYLAR!" Sylar bellowed, in the sake of tradition. But it felt empty, almost meaningless, without some sort of glass surface that was particularly conducive to hissy tantrums.

"Sylar. Right. Well that's not what inspired your appearance here. I heard there was some incident where you agreed that yes, you were Gabriel. Just like the angel."

"WHAT? That - "

"Bob is a twisted bastard. One claim like that, and you were forever typecast in this special hell."

Explained a lot.

"And you - Are you special?"

"One track mind, I see. Before you ask, I am a bit familiar with your work."

"Oh?"

"One Company family picnic, they brought me a potato chip. I think one of them called you 'the Brain Man' - but none of that will work here."

Sylar recognized a challenge for what it was worth. He extended his index finger again and just a few seconds, a few glorious seconds and all the proof he needed would be -

The Hallelujah chorus burst out through the air, sounding suspiciously as if it was originating from Sylar's finger.

"That still isn't going to work for you."

The temptation to throw a tantrum had never been stronger. But Sylar had to preserve his dignity somehow. He could only imagine how it would look, having a tantrum with the wings flopping around uselessly.

"And I was originally the resident Adam but I got a promotion. I turned in my leaves a few weeks ago, and I got the suit instead."

"What are you now?" Sylar just wanted to make sense of things. That's all. Nothing more. And once he did that, leaving was at the top of his list.

"God," Adam answered, shrugging, "I had to bring it up a few thousand times before they finally relented. They said I had a god complex but in this environment, it wouldn't be much of a harm. I wouldn't put much stock in what any of them might tell you."

"Oh." Brains. Brains. Brains. Brains. Think of the brains. Not British men who never shut up.

"Adammonroedammit!" Adam exclaimed, one not-so-heavenly bird flying overhead and depositing a much-unwanted present on the arm of his suit jacket.

If this was Heaven, Sylar would much rather prefer Hell.